


Red Like Simmering Flames

by greygerbil



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Facial Shaving, M/M, Pre-Relationship, shaving with a straight razor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:34:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22977739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greygerbil/pseuds/greygerbil
Summary: Alexios lets Stentor shave him. It's another good excuse to be close.
Relationships: Alexios/Stentor (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59
Collections: Writing Rainbow Red





	Red Like Simmering Flames

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



“You realise you’ll get in trouble with your beloved father if you cut my throat, don’t you?”

Alexios glanced sideways as the razor moved into his field of vision from behind, sharp like a good sword, grazing his cheek experimentally. He’d rubbed his skin with tallow before on Stentor’s orders and the blade glided easily across it.

“You wouldn’t need to put yourself in such danger if you had learned to shave properly at some point in your life.”

“I don’t _need_ to do anything. I have no problem walking into any _syssitia_ the way I look now. I just have this fussy little brother...”

Stentor’s free hand reached out and wrapped around Alexios’ throat, but his palm only exerted a dull pressure while his fingertips held him firmly at the jaw to keep Alexios’ head still. They had done this before, touching, grabbing, bodies moving too close, while wrestling in the dust of the training yard; and though they had been skin on skin then, heated and sweat-slick, something about the shadowy warmth and quiet of the house, the lack of onlookers, made this feel closer. Of course, Alexios was laying in wait for the moment when they finally didn’t need any excuses anymore.

The blade scraped over his face with quick, methodical movements, Stentor’s hand perfectly steady. The way he worked, it was no surprise that Stentor never had as much as an errant inch of stubble on his face.

“Maybe I will grow my beard out next time I plan to attend any official functions in Sparta,” Alexios mused. “Seems easier.”

Stentor would take him to the communal supper that Nikolaos and him attended every evening they spend in Sparta. The invitation had come from Stentor himself, couched in some sneering remark that Alexios should at least pretend to have a citizen’s duties at times if he wanted to play Spartan. Despite the way it was packaged, however, Alexios knew enough about Spartan customs to realise that Stentor would have had to ask if he could bring him and thus seemed to have an interest in appearing by Alexios’ side in public. Knowing that, how could Alexios have denied him?

“The way you live, you’d have birds nesting in that beard after a month,” Stentor muttered, tending to his chin.

Alexios had to grin.

“You might still like it. This Lysimachus guy has a pretty long beard...”

Keeping Sparta as his base for the last few weeks – now that a fragile peace had been established between the warring factions and the Cult had drawn back to lick its wounds like some wounded beast after losing Deimos to Alexios – had taught Alexios a lot. There had been some memories to refresh, of course, but he had left young and in many ways, Sparta and its inhabitants were foreign to him. Besides, as a boy, he had not really known the friends of his parents or imagined how the children he played with would grow up, hadn’t paid attention to politics or even the people on the street. And, of course, he’d known nothing of Stentor, since he had still been a helot the last time Alexios had lived in here, far out of the reach of a Spartan child like Alexios. Even in the nine years they had known each other know as grown men, Alexios had learned little more than that Nikolaos had adopted him and the names of a few soldiers that Stentor considered comrades. Moving into the city had introduced him to other parts of Stentor’s life, like Lysimachus, a stern and quiet man who had been Stentor’s _erastes_ years ago and still seemed to favour Stentor for what little conversation he ever held. It was a surprise: Stentor had seemed uniquely attached only to Nikolaos, freeing Alexios of the burden of jealousy other than the familial kind. Yet, Alexios found that it added just a little fire to know that there might be competition, like an unexpected enemy joining a rousing brawl. It might have been a little less amusing, of course, if he hadn’t already noticed that Stentor never looked at Lysimachus the way he looked at Alexios when he thought Alexios wasn’t paying attention.

“It suits him. Lysimachus has more poise than you and he doesn’t spend as much time crawling through the underbrush,” Stentor teased, not trying to hide the mirth in his voice. Alexios still remembered when he’d spit such things at him with all the venomous anger of a snake disturbed by Alexios’ footfall in some old tomb.

Stentor angled Alexios’ head sideways and moved the grip of his free hand to let the blade slide down his neck, catching all stubble there, too.

“And yet you’re spending the afternoon cleaning me up instead of with him, or anyone else for that matter. Perhaps you are bored of poised Spartan men? The way you let me throw you around on the practice grounds, one could think you might like a rougher hand...”

Stentor flipped the knife, holding the sharp edge of it briefly against Alexios’ throat, but the quick bite was a toothless threat much like their jabs and squabbling. Stentor’s control over the blade was too good to let it slip, besides, something Alexios had always appreciated in a man. Despite the instinctive twitch of muscles, he’d never felt so little fear with a knife at his throat.

After finishing his work with a few more quick strokes, Stentor put the blade aside and handed a wet piece of cloth to Alexios. While he wiped away the coarse stubble and tallow, he felt fingers tearing at the band in his hair and loosening it. Stentor pulled all strands back and bound them, leaving Alexios’ hair pulled taut at the back of his head.

“Satisfied?” Alexios asked after he’d dropped the cloth, turning to him.

“A haircut would be better, but this will do.”

Stentor looked pleased against his will while Alexios still rubbed his chin, which felt strangely naked.

“This is enough. I wouldn’t want to lose all of that mercenary charm you enjoy so much.”

Stentor glowered at him as he grabbed the cloth to wipe off the blade, but Stentor caught the pull of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“Your opinion of yourself remains higher than reason can explain. Hold still.”

Alexios did and Stentor reached over with the cloth. The rough fabric dragged over his throat, but Alexios felt the warmth of Stentor’s hand against his damp skin more clearly. It lingered there a little longer than necessary.

“You missed some,” Stentor said easily.

What gave him the burst of courage, Alexios didn’t know – maybe the lack of care Stentor had put in his own excuse. He caught Stentor’s wrist.

“Are you sure you don’t want to check that I didn’t miss more?”

Stentor hesitated a moment before he pulled his hand away.

“Unlike you, I can’t be late for supper. It’s mandatory,” he said archly. “But we can always leave early.”


End file.
